Sand

By Isaac Herskovitz

His feet crunched in the sand, the granules covering his feet, sticking themselves on before releasing themselves back unto the sand with his next step. The salmon-colored sky painted a vivid Impressionist painting before his eyes. The rocks beside him sat there contentedly, watching the sunset with him.  The wind caressed him, his red and white striped shirt fluttering in the soft breeze. He slightly raised his olive green baseball hat, “RCAF Vet” emblazoned with a small red maple leaf, and stopped for a moment, before adjusting his tousled gray hair to part to his left. His toes twitched in his sandals as he stood solemnly, facing the summer night’s sea. Turning around, he began an ascent up the beach’s native rocks carved into stairs, possessing  a slight incline up to the parking lot in which his car, a sporty, new, grey Mazda crossover, was parked.

In some sort of act of reverence, He turned one last time to the sky, the sun almost gone on the horizon, the heavens a lighter yellow. His foot, expecting a stair, gets air, and he tumbles back, arms flailing wildly in the air, and his back snaps against the jagged stone, his head whipping back into the sand. For a split second, there is a searing pain, the kind that makes you wish death would hasten. Thankfully, the Reaper was happy to oblige and soon everything was black.

photo by Myles Krull

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